A Christmas Gift
by PhantomProducer
Summary: Young Indiana's mother is dying. He has one last chance to get her a gift, one last chance to make her smile on Christmas. A one-shot inspired by "The Christmas Shoes".


**Disclaimer:** I own nothing of the Indiana Jones franchise. That all goes to Spielberg, Lucas, Harrison Ford, (or in this case, River Phoenix) and the others involved in that work. Also, I do not own the song "The Christmas Shoes". That is owned by the band, Newsong. I'm just a poor college student writing for kicks and giggles.

**Author's note:** So I'm a couple days late for anything Christmas-related...but I haven't had any time to write this story until now, since the holidays are over. The song "The Christmas Shoes", with a boy wanting to give his mother one last bit Christmas cheer before her death, made me think of Indiana Jones and his mother dying when he was so young. And so this puppy was created. Read, review, and enjoy!

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England, Christmas Eve, 1911

The teenage boy hopped from foot to foot, waiting in line for the man to ring up his intended purchase. His unruly hair, dusty in color, was pushed out of his face as he continued to bounce in his spot. The other customers frowned at him; where was this boy's parents? How could they let their young son out on his own, and on Christmas Eve no less? Never mind that they had forgotten to get a trinket or two for their own families, this boy shouldn't be out on this day.

Especially not this boy. Not the precious Professor Jones' son, Henry Jones Junior.

He mostly ignored them, knowing that they weren't faring any better than he, being as he only now had the money to make his special buy.

The general store owner looked behind his current customer to peer at Henry. He was shooting up, easily closing in on his father in height. His hair was getting longer, and in general the boy looked a little more unkempt than was acceptable. However, given the rumors going around, he wasn't all that surprised that Henry looked worse for the wear. No doubt his father was just as scruffy and preoccupied back at the Jones residence. Anna Jones was said to be sick, deathly ill even. No one could project her living past the New Year. It was heartbreaking, hearing of the family being torn and shattered that way. Quickly the store owner rang up the customers items and sent them on their way.

Breathing out a deep sigh of relief, Indiana (as he'd styled himself) sauntered up to the counter.

"Hello, Mr. Murray, happy Christmas Eve," he croaked, sliding his box onto the counter. Despite himself, Murray felt a smile creep onto his face; the boy had a charisma about him, even though he was just twelve. Henry Jones Senior was said to have the same magnetism in his lectures on medieval literature; obviously it was an inherited trait. Easily the brash American boy could charm anyone who came in his path, and all he had to do was flash that brilliant smirk that could only be described as "Jonesian".

"Happy Christmas Eve indeed, Henry," Murray grumbled, opening up the package and peering into the contents. The Englishman was characterized as curmudgeonly, but the young Jones had broken through his exterior. After coming in every other day or so for the few months his father was there on his lecture circuit to purchase much-needed items for his father, he discovered the soft-hearted side of Robert Murray. "Christmas Eve and I decide to keep the shop open. What a foolish idea. I shouldn't even be here right now, and neither should you, boy. Why aren't you at home, young man?"

Rubbing his hands together, Indy actually looked shy for once.

"Well, sir, I needed to get a special gift for my mother. Only yesterday did I get paid, so…here I am."

Nodding, Mr. Murray glanced in the box once more. It was a pair of shoes, the black leather shining and a broad silver clasp on the shortened tongue. They were beautiful, a perfect gift from a boy to his mother.

"Lovely choice, Mr. Jones," Robert commented offhandedly, while Indiana pumped his head up and down in an enthusiastic nod.

"Been waiting all month to earn the money for those. The shoes are just her size…" he trailed off, staring at the slow owner plodding to get some wrapping for it. "Could…could you hurry, sir?"

"What's the rush, lad?" Murray said, immediately regretting his words. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the cloud pass over Indy's face, and the boy's bright hazel eyes darkened a shade.

"My father…says there may not be much time to give my mother something for Christmas. She's…been sick, I'm sure you've heard."

The older gentleman blushed, feeling guilty for hearing the rumors and not paying them any mind at the time.

"She's been sick for quite some time. I just want to make her smile, and look beautiful…just in case she…"

A hand raised paused Indiana's speech. "I'm truly sorry, Henry. I'll go as fast as I can."

Now it was Indy's turn to go red. He didn't expect pity, nor did he want it. Up until this moment, he'd been in happy denial about his mother's illness, convincing himself that she would get better, no matter what his father said. He couldn't imagine a world without her…she was always there to greet him when he escaped from Miss Helen, or to journey with him to Russia and Italy and revel in the adventures ("You're so spirited, Henry, I can hardly keep up!"). But as the weeks went by and now as he stood before the register in the small store, he realized that it was going to happen. His mother was dying, and this could be his last chance to see her cheerful.

"Six pounds even, lad," the shop owner cut through his thoughts. Rifling through his pockets, he extracted every tiny penny he'd made over the last five weeks. He'd been working hard, doing odd jobs for his neighbors and running errands for the professor-friends of his dad. Hours and hours of labor, to earn a piddly bit of coin at the end of it. Painstakingly he counted each out, and as he came up with less and less, he felt dread and panic in his heart. It wasn't enough, his gut was telling him, and his gut was almost never wrong.

"Henry…" Mr. Murray started, only to be cut by the fierce voice of a desperate boy.

"No! Don't say it! I know I…" Indy vehemently hissed, feeling around in his pocket one more time. No luck. He stared at his feet, at his own brown and scuffed shoes, and he felt the tears well up again.

"What am I going to do?" he wondered aloud. "She…she always made things good for us, especially around this time of year. I have to get her these shoes. I have to."

Suddenly a hand from behind laid down the money he needed. Wordlessly Indiana turned and faced the man who'd donated money to his cause. The man, who seemed to be about ten or fifteen years older, smiled sadly. His blue eyes searched Indy's face, and all the young boy could do was stare back.

"Sir, I don't-"

"Please take it, and have a merry Christmas," the stranger said in a clipped tone, clearly moved by Henry's emotion over this single gift.

Indiana stumbled for words. "Thank you, Mister…uh, I'm sorry, what's your name?"

"Brody. Marcus Brody."

"Thank you, Mister Brody. Merry Christmas."

With that, Indiana scooped up the wrapped shoes, nodded a good-bye to Murray and Brody and tore out the door.

"You know, I think I caught a glimpse of heaven's love in that boy's eyes," Brody remarked idly minutes later. "The hard work, the pure devotion and care for his mother, putting her needs before his own…makes you think of what Christmas is all about."

The shop owner concurred, "Aye, mate. That Jones lad could teach us all a thing or two about having the right spirit. Let's pray he never loses that trait."

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**Last note:** According to TheRaider(dot)net, Indiana's mother died sometime between April and June of 1912, so I moved her death timeline up. It's still a tad open-ended where you could say she was able to hang on for a few more months, but that shouldn't be the main focus here. Also, I was shaky on dollar-to-pound conversion, so that may not be accurate. Still, I hope you enjoyed this one-shot, and happy holidays!


End file.
